It probably wasn’t obvious, given the size and gender — and the Hvezda boys, these strapping sons of Rueben, these born of the earth, farm raised young men, quite probably held their own in the country school just up the road — but I would have to say that it was my mother on more than one occasion who proved to be strongest. 

And she was tired. She, being the second of nine, and the oldest girl, worked side by side her mother. Washing the continuous dishes. Changing the diapers. Retrieving the dolls thrown up apple trees by brothers endlessly tormenting sisters. Her arms weary from rocking and cradling babies she didn’t choose, but took in, one by one. 

But those arms, that dangled long and heavy by her side, weighted by work, and books, and a metal lunchbox, found the strength to defend her brother Tom, from the endless teasing of Arne Zavadil. He never saw her coming, as he pushed and taunted this young boy struggling with words. He never expected this quiet, arm-weary sister to rise up from the ditch in front of the white school house and swing that metal lunch box with all of might, and flatten him to the ground. She wiped the blood from the lunch box on the grass and walked home to help her mother. 

I don’t imagine Tom thanked her. He still found a way to tease his sisters. But strength untouted is still strength. Without the need for boast or gratification, those who do the work, the endless work, and still show up, these are the strongest of us. The most brave. 

Sometimes, in a moment of weakness, I can wonder if it all matters. Heart and arm weary I wonder if the words on page make a difference. If the paint on canvas is wasted. But then I feel her, walking to school, step by step, and I am stronger. Ready to swing with all of my might. To defend what’s right. To rise up from the ditch and protect the ones I love, even the ones who just hours before “left my favorite doll out in the rain.” I am ready to defend. To rock and cradle. To swing if necessary. To love with a strength undenied.